“And what is whimpermeter?”
“Dat’s a woid dat I coined meself,” proudly proclaimed the John Yegg. “I’m kinda educated, youse see, Jack. Dat is, w’ile I ain’t got any schoolin’, I see t’ings. Get me? I use me nut, and I read quite a lot. Wot I call whimpermeter is a line o’ patter dat I hand out w’en I’m moochin’ fer de eats. I c’n twist up me face till it looks like I’m geed-up fer good. See dis here scar?” He indicated the smooth, red mark on his cheek. “Dat’s wot youse’d call an artificial scar, Jack. I had dat boined dere wid acid, an’ I had ’er run down into de corner o’ me mout’ apoipus. Den w’en I twist me mout’ towards it—like dis—an’ close de eye on dat side—like dis—dey all kinda run togedder, an’ me face looks like I been t’rough some terrible experience. Hey? Get me?”
Joshua did get him, for his face, twisted as it was, looked hideous.
“Den,” The Whimperer continued, “I was an acerbat in a little circus onct, until de booze got me. An’ I c’n t’row me arms outa joint an’ make it look like I’m all crippled up. Jes’ watch!”
On the stool, he twisted himself sidewise, and there came a succession of bony clicks along his left arm. Through his coatsleeve, even, Joshua could see the knots where bones had jumped their sockets, and his fingers, every one out of joint, were monstrously contorted. The entire arm looked as if it had been rendered useless in grinding machinery.
“Dat wing is me livin’, Jack,” he proudly observed. “How ’bout it? Didn’t I look like I needed some kin’ lady’s help? Den I play like I’m dumb, too—see?—an’ I twist meself up like dat and point to me mout’ an’ shake me head, an’ slip ’em one o’ dese here pomes dat I wrote meself an’ had printed in Chicago.”
He fished in an inside pocket of his greasy coat and produced a dirty card, which he proudly handed to his prospective neophyte.
“Read dat,” he offered.
And Joshua read:
A blighted life, a broken soul,